


in this world

by capsize (copenhagenborn)



Category: Men's Hockey RPF
Genre: 2017-2018 NHL Season, 2018-2019 NHL Season, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Breaking Up & Making Up, Content warnings in the notes, Friends to Lovers, Friendship, Getting Together, Light Angst, M/M, Red String of Fate, Slight deceit
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-06
Updated: 2019-01-06
Packaged: 2019-10-05 15:59:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 19,181
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17328086
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/copenhagenborn/pseuds/capsize
Summary: There’s a beat where Nolan seems incredibly sad. His eyes sulky as he watches his fingers extend before curling them into a tight fist and then starting all over again. Nico can almost imagine how the string would stretch itself to follow his movement, quick and flawless like everything else about Nolan. “But I don’t have any strings, is that what you’re saying?”“I, yeah. That’s what I’m saying.”“Oh. That’s – I don’t know how to feel about that.”He does sound lost, like he can’t quite believe he doesn’t have a stupid piece of metaphysical yarn tying him to some other person. Which he can’t even see himself.And maybe Nico’s reaction would be different if he didn’t know that it’s a lie, if he wasn’t furiously rubbing the string around him own finger knowing Nolan is on the other end of it.Nico can see strings tying people to their soulmate; more importantly, he can see the one between him and Nolan. Nico doesn’t tell him about it.





	in this world

**Author's Note:**

> as always, if you know anyone in this story or anyone even vaguely associated to them, please close the tab now!
> 
> otherwise, this was started in october and has been haunting me ever since. 
> 
> slight changes to canon timeline, Adam Henrique was traded during the 2017 off-season, as in Nico and him are never on the same team. Also, Eddie Läck starts the season as a Devil. 
> 
> content warnings: 
> 
> as mentioned in the tags, Nico knows there's a string between him and Nolan but doesn't tell him about. 
> 
> also, since this was started at the beginning of the season, Dylan Strome was still a Coyote. As this story covers event from the 2017 to the 2019 season, talk about the Strome trade is included. Dylan does not speak positively about the organisation, but the team - without names other than his and Debrincat - is mentioned. So if that is a trigger or even uncomfortable for you to read, I would skip Nico and Dylan’s phone conversation in the 2018-19 season (towards the end of the story).

Nico is not new to America.

He has been here before. He played for the Mooseheads with Fortier and Moynihan, skated on the smaller ice with faster game and sharper focus; played with guys bred for hockey with no need for breaks if it might come at the cost of going first overall.

Nico doesn’t know a lot about his draft class, even less about the handful of players scouted to go before him. He has played against a couple of them in international tournaments, against Comtois in the Q, but there isn’t a lot of European guys this year, and even less of them are fluent in German.

The rankings change during the season; Liljegren coming down with mono, someone with a broken wrist falling a few spots down further on the list, others with unlucky point-streaks seemingly impossible to break.

Nolan Patrick stays at the top of the list.

Nico doesn’t know him very well either.

He is in the Western league – or the _dub_ as they call it during the combine – and even then, on equal footing with the same odds stacked against them – Nolan’s injuries and low game appearance; Nico’s size and lack of Canadian blood – Nolan still stays with the handful of guys he knows, Team Canada huddled together in a corner, safe from the rest of them.

Everything changes in Nashville.

It’s just a couple of them flown in for the Stanley cup final between two teams neither of them is being drafted to. But it is hockey – _good_ hockey at that – and Nico knows more than enough about Crosby from playing in Halifax with a sliver of overlap left from MacKinnon’s reign, about Josi from national pride.

What’s surprising then, is that Nolan stays by his side for most parts of the weekend.

There is still a handful of good Canadian boys left in the top ten. Guys that Nolan probably knows through that one friend from Mites they all seem to have in common. But instead, Nolan just slots himself neatly into the seat next to Nico and refuses to leave even when the PR people tries to encourage them to mingle for a while.

Neither of them mentions the combine or the other thousands of times they’ve been put together and didn’t speak with each other. They’re past that, Nico thinks as Nolan leans in closer, so he can finish his story without Lias interrupting him.

Nolan is funny in that way North American hockey players usually are – chirpy and dry, sarcastic with a bit of mean sprinkled in to balance out the fondness of which he speaks of his friends with – but Nico doesn’t mind terribly. At least not here in the sweltering heat of Nashville, thighs pressed closed to Nolan’s as he tells another story about the Kings.

The thing is though, Nolan mumbles a lot.

And – Nico’s English is good for a Swiss guy.

But it gets frustrating when he has to ask him to repeat what he’s saying for the fifth time, voice soft but apologetic as he nudges Nolan’s shoulder to break him out of his spell. Nico knows there are guys back in Halifax who just drops it when he doesn’t get it the first time around; shakes their head and turns to their other side because, “Forget it, Hisch. It wasn’t that important anyway,” but still manages to mutter a, “Fucking come on,” underneath their breath when they think he’s stopped listening.

But Nolan just – Nolan blushes with his entire head, cheeks turning rosy to the point where Nico wants to reach out and touch them to feel whether they really are as warm as they seem. And then he speaks up, enunciating so Nico can understand what he’s saying instead of having to guess his way to a response.

It’s easy then, to do what the press ask of them and talk about the infamous first overall pick, about possibly going to New Jersey; even easier to say, “He is a great guy. I got to know him a little better now. He would be happy for me, I would be happy for him.”

It is still true when the draft comes around.

Both of them dressed up in fancy suits and ties tied by their mothers. They meet up just before the first round is set to start, tucked away in the one corner where there isn’t already a camera as they agree to meet up afterwards, “To celebrate yes?” Nico asks with a sweet smile as he pulls his arms back and allows Nolan to step back from their embrace.

“Yes Hisch, we’ll celebrate.” Nolan replies in the same excited tone, his cheeks flushed and burning hot against Nico’s neck.

 

Newark is not Halifax.

Nico might not be new to America, but America is definitely new to him.   

Rookie camp is good. The front office puts them all in a hotel, 20 rookies or so crammed together in a handful of rooms to quote ‘increase team chemistry’. Nico doesn’t mind the close proximity of it all. He grew up on tournaments held in neighbouring countries – close enough to travel overnight, but too far away to make it home before bedtime; then in Halifax with his billet family and teammates who didn’t like being alone for too long.

It doesn’t change the fact that they all know the reason why they’re there, though. Why they’ve all been discouraged to find more permanent places before the season starts.

A lot of the sophomores get cut, even more from Nico’s draft year.

But there’s still a couple of them left when prospect camp comes around, guys that Nico can see sticking around for good. There are the round-robin games and team practices with some of the veterans; Nico cannot know for sure, but it’s implied that he will make the team out of training camp – that he will play opening night alongside Taylor Hall and a team full of freaking NHL players.

Nico isn’t a shy guy, but he isn’t brash either.

It helps having Jesper around. Jesper whose German is okay – his words are choppy in the way an infrequently used third language usually is; his accent stilted but familiar in the way Scandinavian tourists would sound during summer months back in Nater. But even then, it’s not any better than their combined English.

Neither of them has a valid licence – Nico who didn’t want to struggle with the Canadian DMV whilst in Halifax, and Jesper who never got around to complete his learner’s permit – so they’re stuck with Uber and public transport until one of the vets takes pity on them.  

They get a place together some time during the preseason.

Both of them comes back from Europe with suitcases too big and shit they don’t need, but still not enough to fill a two-bedroom flat between the two of them. The trip to IKEA helps; Jesper on his knees for hours trying to assemble one piece of white wood to another while Nico watches from the couch.

“I thought they teach you this in school. Like Swedish science class, yes?” Nico chirps happily as he bites into another piece of chocolate his mother had told him to share with the team. “You are not very good at this, though.”

Jesper grunts and throws away another screwdriver with the wrong head size, “You try then.” He snaps, teeth gritted together as he lets go of the wood and watches it fall with a resigned sort of disinterest that hadn’t been there an hour ago. “At least I was smart enough to bring tools.”

Nico shrugs but moves his feet to make room for Jesper in the other end of the couch.

His bed had come assembled, just like the sofa and the dinner table they had yet to use. If Jesper wanted sensible storage in minimalistic Swedish design, he could build it himself.

At some point between fucking up the screws so much they would not be screwed in any tighter and bending the back covering for one of the bookcases, Jesper calls Johansson who comes by with a grinning Eddie Läck in tow.

“See?” Nico laughs delighted as they heave the last bookcase up from the floor and push it against the wall, “You’re the only one who failed Swedish science class, Brattsy.”

Maybe it is not the right thing to say to a red-faced Jesper who had been very awkward about inviting Marcus into his incomplete home, but Eddie laughs and that’s enough for Nico.

. . .

Nico starts to see the threads just before their home opener.

It isn’t a gradual thing with a slow build-up and blurry lines days before, and he isn’t sure why it happens now of all times. But the minute he sets foot into the locker room, pieces of thread start to appear from people’s fingers.

It’s mostly a big mesh of reds crisscrossing each other as the guys move around the room, the strings following effortlessly as they walk. There is a couple of blues mixed in between and a solitary purple string hanging from Hallsy’s pinkie.

Nico only has one thread hanging from his own hand.

It’s nothing like the threes and the fours he sees hanging from some of the guys’ hands, but this one is different somehow. He doesn’t know if it is biased or not, but it seems brighter – a brilliant red string a bit thicker than most – almost shining as he picks it up and lets it go in quick succession.

It doesn’t move though; the string staying static as it seemingly contorts and extends to follow his movement whilst keeping its overall architecture.

“Huh,” He lets out softly. He turns and twists it until a knot develops a couple of centimetres away from his body; it doesn’t take more than a couple of seconds before it starts to resolve itself as he lets go of the string, detangling until it is once again straight.

“What’s up, rook?” Hallsy asks absently, tying up his skates before turning back to Nico’s stall. “There’s nothing to be nervous about, okay? It’s just Colorado, Hisch. That’s who you want to be playing.”

And maybe Nico should have been listening more to Taylor’s talk about being a recovering first overall picking team, but.

There are four strings tied to his hand when Taylor raises it to put on his helmet, all of them looking different than the others. There is a purple one that up-close looks more like a gradient going from blue to red as it rounds the corner to leave the room through the closed door. The pair of reds twisted together, a tight helix as if they are clinging on to each other, one of them just a tad brighter than the other.

The last one though, is what makes Nico’s heart ache.

It’s bright blue like the bottle of Gatorade he chucked before someone came to pick them up, but that’s about the only thing joyous about it.

Unlike the rest of the strings, the blue one is cut off and lying limp on the floor next to Hall’s skates, the colour fading into a dull grey where it reaches the floor. The end is fraying and darker and looks like someone put a lighter to it to make it snap in half. It’s ugly in a way Nico never thought he would describe a thread, sad and pathetic as Marcus steps on it to yell something at Jesper.

Nico takes a quick look around the room but no one else’s strings seem to be cut in half – all of them looking happy and healthy as they leave the room in seemingly impossible ways.

“Yeah, I –“ Nico starts but there’s a lump of something stuck in his throat – nerves, impatience, sadness, maybe? He is not quite sure. “We’ll kick Colorado’s ass tonight, Hallsy. It will be a good game.” He promises instead, leaning in as Taylor reaches out to ruffle his hair.

Taylor snorts, but there’s a smile on his lips and maybe that’s enough for now. “If you say so, rookie. Might as well kick the season off with a W, eh?”

For a moment Nico is back in the Q, with the Mooseheads and Fortier standing beside him; the words a bit too Anglo but the meaning is the same. But Halifax is not his team anymore, not more than Bern or Visp is. So instead Nico smiles and pulls on his jersey, careful not to disturb the string as he looks up at Taylor and says, “Race you to first goal?”

 

Nico is in Florida when he learns how the strings end.

For a while Nico had thought they all ended like Hallsy’s sad blue string; just pieces of thread that were at some point cut off and now trying to play catch up with their owner.

Now though, during warm-ups with only a handful of people on the ice, Nico can easily follow the red string around Eddie’s finger from where he’s sitting on the bench to the Panther’s crease, creeping underneath the other goaltender’s glove.

It’s even easier to see when Eddie is swapped in just before the end of third, when both teams are chasing that one goal to keep them from going to OT. And maybe it isn’t entirely Nico’s fault – at least he’s not the one being forced into a turnover – but he cannot stop staring at the red string so neatly dividing the rink into halves, running from goal to goal as both goaltenders stay stoically still within their crease.

They lose it five minutes into overtime, but Nico cannot find it in himself to care.

He slides into the empty seat next to Eddie on the way home, the plane quiet after back-to-back losses in Florida.

Eddie looks a bit wistful, a sad look in his eyes as he watches Nico sit down but there’s no protest leaving his mouth, a quiet surrender as he pulls out one earbud. “What’s up, rook. Did you enjoy the sun?”

Nico nods but it’s distracted. “Yes, but I –“ He starts and pauses, before deciding not to dwell on the niceties. “Do you know Luongo?” He asks a bit too blunt, bordering on rude, he knows. But then, there isn’t room for a lot of subtlety when you’re still perfecting a language, nuances forgotten in the pursuit of good grammar.

Eddie does wince, but there is a smile on his lips at the mention the name. It turns a bit hollow as he nods, “Yeah, I know Lou.”

When Nico does not seem to reply Eddie continues: “I’ve played for a lot of teams, bud. When I first came over from Sweden, when I got my first start in the NHL, Lou was there. I spent a lot of time with the Wolves back then, when the Canucks were good and actually made it into the playoffs, but like. Lou still made the time to keep in touch, watching my games and coming up with advice whenever I was feeling shitty.”

The smile looks happier now, playful almost when he speaks of his days in Vancouver; how Luongo had let him stay in his house and gone with him to the rink after particularly hard losses to perfect his saves.

“He seems like a good friend.” Is what Nico settles on, lost for words to describe the soft look in Eddie’s eyes; wistful and loving all the same.

Eddie lets out a quiet sigh followed by quick, mirthful laughter. “Yeah, Hisch. He’s a good friend, the best one you could wish for.”

It is later, when they’re back home and it’s just him and Jesper hanging out on one of the beds – they’re still a bit interchangeable this early in the season, nothing substantial to really mark one of them as Nico’s and the other Jesper’s.

“Do you know anything about Eddie and Luongo?”

Jesper exhales deeply but doesn’t reply. He turns his head just a fraction until their eyes meet, his gaze strong and sceptical as he looks Nico over with critical eyes. “Why do you wanna know?” He asks instead, his tone careful but not unkind.

Nico shrugs, “They seemed close.”

Jesper stays sceptic and doesn’t soften as he nods, just once. “Yeah, they’re close.”

He doesn’t seem to want to elaborate, already turning his attention back to television where they’re streaming some kind of Norwegian youth show Jesper had become weirdly into.

So Nico drops it. For now.

 

Arizona comes to town and Nico marvels at the hands of Dylan Strome.

Former third-round pick now turned emergency call-up, slotted in on the third line in the place of a nameless winger Nico hadn’t heard of before tonight. He only recognises him from the vague pictures of Team Canada Nolan had sent him, looking happy standing between Marner and McDavid and a couple of other young guys scattered throughout the league.

He will remember now though, because Dylan Strome has a blue string from every finger; all of them tangled up in each other as he skates circles around their blue line.

Nico has seen people with multiple threads before, sat next to Hallsy on late night flight and braided his four strings together when he couldn’t fall asleep. But Nico has never seen someone with strings on all fingers, especially not all of them monochromatic.

It’s during a stoppage of game that Nico notices the feeling of someone watching him and looks up to find Dylan Strome standing just a metre away from him, a weird look on his face as he clenches his fists. “What are you staring at, Hischier?” He asks flatly, face unimpressed as Nico looks up to meet his eyes.

Nico knows he tends to stare at the strings whenever there is something special about them – like Marner and Matthews with so little string between them that it seems to struggle whenever one of them jumps the boards to skate out onto the ice, or Ovechkin and his centre with something akin to rope hanging between them – but he has never had so much time to study them that someone actually took notice of his interest.

“Oh no, I do not want to fight. No thank you,” Nico says hurriedly with a shake of his head as he skates backwards a few steps, “I was just – well, um.”

Strome frowns and then – _touches_ one of the strings, tugs at it with big clumsy gloved fingers before looking back up at Nico with narrowed eyes, “Can you see them?”

“Can _you_?” Nico returns, his voice excited. He reaches out to touch the same string, to see if it’s like his own, like Hallsy’s, but Strome turns sharply and pulls his strings with him.

“Well, they’re _mine_.” He says hotly, bordering on hostile. He doesn’t quite scoff but it looks like he wants to.

“That is not –“ Nico starts and then hastily looks around to make sure his team isn’t looking for him, “Do you know where they end?”

“Obviously.” He says, finally giving in to the urge. “What are you getting at, Hischier?”

“Can _they_ see them?” Nico replies with the same urgency, suddenly parched for any information on the strange strings and their meaning.

But his question makes Strome draw a blank. “Well, no. But –“

“Do you know anyone else who can see them?” 

“What? No, but I –“ One of the refs blows his whistle and the game is starting up again. “After the game, Hischier. Come by the locker room and we’ll talk.” Strome yells before skating back to the bench.

The Devils win 4-3 and it’s not quite the win they wanted, but it’s better than their last one. Nico declines offers of going out, manoeuvres around Hallsy who’s yelling about clubs with loose rules about serving minors, and escapes to the other end of the arena.

They end up at a diner close to the airport, nothing but black coffee and a shared plate of fries between them.

“Do you uh. Do you know why you don’t have any reds?” Nico asks when the silence has gone on for too long, Strome staring at him intensely as he sucks ketchup off a fry.

Nico has a theory, something vague built on loose observation and uninformed assumption about people’ relationships. But it’s nothing more than guesswork scrambled together during the very little time he has beside hockey – none of it spent considering his own lone thread.

“Red? The strings are blue, bud.” Strome says, not entirely kind. He lifts his hands for emphasis and wiggles his fingers in a weak approximation of jazz hands.

“Yes.” Nico nods feverishly, “Yours are, mine is not. Hallsy’s are not, well, one is but the others are not. Your captain has one, _Marner_ –“

“I can’t see them.” Strome cuts him off. His voice sounds off having lost some of its animosity. He shifts in his seat, hands fiddling with the salt shaker before he moves on to his cup. “I can only see my own, that’s. I didn’t know you could see others.”

Nico exhales deeply, his mood going sullen. “I don’t think you are supposed to. I can though, see everyone’s that is.”

“Shit, dude.” Strome lets out, his voice quieter now as his eyes soften. “That’s. I don’t even know? Congrats? Or like, does it suck? I can’t imagine playing hockey with strings all over the rink. I get distracted by my own you know, fuck man, playing in Edmonton is a nightmare.”

Nico shrugs but there’s a smile on his lips now, “McDavid?”

Strome grins, his lips spread wider than Nico’s ever seen them and a bit of light in his eyes now. “Yeah, he’s my boy. But like, Ryan’s there too, so it gets a bit distracting if we’re on the ice at the same time.” He explains fondly, rubbing unconsciously at the two outer strings of his left hand.

Strome doesn’t know anything about the strings other than where his end, doesn’t know anyone else who’s even mentioned strings tying people together before. It’s not exactly what Nico had been hoping for, but it’s a start.

. . .

 _Can u see strings from people’s fingers?_ Nico texts Nolan one night.

The Flyers play in New Jersey in a few days, and they’ve been talking about getting together to catch up after the game. Which is how Nico knows Nolan is terrible at keeping his bedtime – staying up later than the coaches advice to send him dumb shit he probably got from TK – and will probably reply within a couple of minutes. Which –

**_????_ **

**_sure u mean string bud????_ **

_The thing you sew with, yes?? Thread, rope but thin??_

**_yah, ok_ **

**_also no???_ **

It’s not disappointment he feels, it _can’t_ be. But there’s definitely something that aches in his chest when Nolan denies him. It’s not even fair to feel that way because other than Dylan, Nico hasn’t met anyone who can even sense the threads, so to hope Nolan was one of the few that could was far out.

His phone starts to ring, and Nico doesn’t quite jump in surprise but it’s close.

“Yes?” He answers, puling the phone away to look at the caller on the screen, “Hello Nolan.”

“What do you mean strings from people’s fingers? That’s fucking weird, bud.” Nolan cuts him off, his voice sounding tired but no less monotone. “Are you telling me you can see shit like that?”

“It is – well, complicated.”

“Not really though,” Nolan says with a yawn. “One’s a really lame joke, and the other is just fucking weird, but none of them are complicated.” He ends matter-of-factly, voice unusually clear.

“You don’t think seeing strings tied to people’s fingers is complicated?”

“Well,” Nolan starts followed by the sound of changing to facetime. Nico pulls his phone away, so he can watch Nolan propped up in his bed somewhere in Philly. “I mean, yeah the strings shit might be hard to deal with. But like, telling me? That’s, Hisch. That should be easy, buddy.”

Nico lets out a breathy laugh, but it’s on the side of hollow. “So you uh, believe me? You don’t think I’m joking?”

Nolan shrugs. He pulls his sheets farther up until he’s nothing but a head surround by navy blue fabric, his hair looking messy and just the slightest bit greasy. But there’s a smile on his lips and a soft look in his eyes as he speaks, “I mean, you could be. But I would still believe you if you told me so.”

Nico nods, once, twice, and then smiles.

There’s not much to tell in the end. Nico still doesn’t know a lot about them other than their presence and the difference in colour seemingly dependent on the nature of one’s relationships. But it’s hard to explain over the phone, even with Nolan willing to go along with seemingly everything he comes up with.

“We should meet up, yes? Maybe it’s easier to talk about when I can see you.” Nico says at some point, when they’re both slurring their words and the camera angles have gone from bad to worse, showing only very little face and a lot of darkness.

“Yeah, let’s do that Hisch. You can buy me dinner and anything after our win.”

Nico snorts but doesn’t disagree. “Sounds good, Nolan.”

 

They don’t meet up before the game.

Nico’s running a bit too late to stop by the visitor’s room, and Nolan riddled with traditions and superstitions is too busy to seek him out himself. It doesn’t help that Nico is late to getting onto the ice as well, his wrist still aching from a hit last game and had needed to be iced before the game.

He hurries through dressing, bumps into Brattsy before stepping onto the ice and – his string starts to move.

It’s –

He’s never noticed his string moving before. He’s seen it whenever they’re playing the Ducks, or the Avs with their millions of paired strings. The meshwork of playing against the Isles when Eberle, that new kid Barzal and his linemate are all on the ice at the same time as him and Taylor. The shear movement of dark red strings across the ice enough to make him dizzy.

At first, it’s almost not noticeable, just tiny tugging motions making the string jump. But as he comes around the bench for pucks and moves closer to Hallsy shooting at Kinker, it becomes more animated, forceful jerks from side to side, worsening as he skates closer to centre ice.

He skates to stop right around the face-off dot and frowns.

Nico hears him arrive before he sees him, the familiar sound of skates making a sharp turn and spraying him with ice as Nolan stops in front of him. “Hey, Hisch. Are we still on for later?”

And – Nico nods, because how could he not?

But there are no words coming out of his mouth. Nothing other than breathy sounds and grunts as Nolan hip-checks him before he skates back to his own bench, looking wonderfully soft with his cheeks flushed from the chill and orange jersey clashing horribly.

And then Nico looks back down to his gloved hand.

He doesn’t need to see the skin to know the string is still there, bright red and strong as he watches it cross the rink to the Flyer’s bench where it’s tied securely around Nolan’s finger as he pulls off his glove to have a sip of water.

For a while he just stands there, at centre ice with his team on one side and Nolan on the other, wondering how he hadn’t noticed this before. He pulls at the string with big clumsy fingers but there’s no reaction on Nolan’s end, nothing other than the thread morphing itself to withstand his tugging.

“Are you coming, rook?” Hallsy calls as he skates up next to him, bumping gently into his back and skating them back to the bench. “I know you’re buddies and shit with Patrick, but that doesn’t mean you can’t kick his ass, alright?”

“Yeah, alright Hallsy.”

He tears his gaze away from the string, mockingly vibrant and thick compared to Taylor’s four. But it helps to look at them, to stop hyper-focusing on whatever this might mean for him and Nolan.

 

Nico doesn’t tell him about the string.

Not during the game stoppage where they hang around the small sliver of space between their benches, not when they meet up after and Nico brings him to the one café he actually knows the directions to, and not when they’re both back home, lying in their own beds with Nolan mumbling quietly over the phone.

He doesn’t need to know.

At least now, when even Nico doesn’t know what they mean.

There’s a beat where Nolan seems incredibly sad. His eyes sulky as he watches his fingers extend before curling them into a tight fist and then starting all over again. Nico can almost imagine how the string would stretch itself to follow his movement, quick and flawless like everything else about Nolan. “But I don’t have any strings, is that what you’re saying?”

“I, yeah. That’s what I’m saying.”  

“Oh. That’s – I don’t know how to feel about that.”

He does sound lost, like he can’t quite believe he doesn’t have a stupid piece of metaphysical yarn tying him to some other person. Which he can’t even see himself.

And maybe Nico’s reaction would be different if he didn’t know that it’s a lie, if he wasn’t furiously rubbing the string around him own finger knowing Nolan is on the other end of it.

“Lots of people don’t have strings, Nols.” He tries instead, voice soft and just on the edge of pleading because Nolan still looks so miserable about the news, ending the call much sooner than he usually does. “It doesn’t change anything, I promise.”

And it really doesn’t.

Nolan still calls a couple of nights later to talk shit about Giroux and Ivan who are obviously both there in the room if the loud objections are anything to go by. He still asks about the strings, about the new teams Nico hasn’t played against yet, trying to guess any matches he and Dylan haven’t figured out yet. 

“Nothing, really?” He grumbles one night, tucked up against a sleeping TK. His voice is soft though, and there’s a grin on his lips as he adjusts Travis so they’re both lying down instead, “G would freak if he knew Crosby and Malkin weren’t meant for each other. Shit Neeks, that’s some good fucking shit.”

Nico tries not to preen but it’s hard when Nolan sound this excited over something he said. It’s even harder to ignore the soft swoops his stomach makes whenever he draws a laugh out of him, when they’re talking late at night and the Hisch turns into Neeks and Nico almost dies at how tender it sounds coming out of Nolan’s mouth, all tired and soft but still trying to make an effort to stay awake.

Jesper rolls his eyes at him and mutters something about obliviousness.

Which.

Jokes on Brattsy. Nico already knows he has feeling for Nolan.

He’s just not quite sure how to deal with them, or the fact that he lied to him and how that might affect them in the future.

But then, Nolan still hasn’t asked whether Nico has any strings either.

 

Nico doesn’t mean for it to happen, but somehow him and Dylan being friends becomes a thing.

Nolan is great at a lot of things.

Nico loves the dry jokes he makes when they’re facetiming, both of them with a game the night after but still reluctant to let go of the moment. Nolan talking about TK talking about some guy from back home who’s now stuck in Arizona.

“He ate a worm, Neeks. A fucking worm, right in the _mouth_ just because Davo told him to.”

Nico frowns, his nose crinkled as he imagines McDavid telling him to do something he didn’t want to, much less eat a freaking worm.

“No offence, bud. But I sure as hell wouldn’t eat a worm if someone dared me to,” He grumbles over the phone, voice bordering on mumbling territory but it’s late and Nico hasn’t heard his voice in a couple of days, so he doesn’t mind. At least this is better than the shitty snaps he’s been getting at odd hours of the day. “Like, even if it was you? I still wouldn’t do it. I mean like. Probably not, at least.”

Nolan though, still belongs to the rookie crop, to the group of guys playing their first season in the big league with no real connections to the other players, too nervous to really make any waves or step on anyone’s toes.

Which is how Nico ends up contacting Dylan Strome for just a bit of context on the league as a whole.

_Barzal and Beauilier??_

_*beavuilier_

_**beauviLLier??_

**hahahahah**

**lol**

**u mean tito ?**

**but like for sure**

**could be both tho**

_It is red_

**fucking neat-o bud**

_the Finns on the canes??_

_Aho and the other guy_

_I am not gona spell it_

_It is blue_

**idk about em**

**i can ask hanny**

**but hes shitty at txting me back**

_alright_

**like srsly shitty**

**dont expect him to rply for like a month**

 

_Marner and Matthews??_

_Red string???_

** what ?  **

**ha ! thats not happening**

Is what Nico gets back after their second game against the Leafs making him pause with his thumbs on the screen.

It’s still only been a couple of months, but he thinks he’s been getting better at studying the threads; looking at their thickness and the intensity of the colour, how twisted and knotted they are opposed to not having any bumps on them – how all of it might reflect the nature of a relationship.  

Marner and Matthews’ string had been bright red and thicker than the charger cord to his phone; not one of those frail looking things Nico always dreads having to skate over in fear of it breaking.

Only a couple of minutes goes by before his phone is ringing, Dylan’s name stark against the dark screen.

Nico rolls his eyes but answers anyways, leaning back on the couch with his tea in the other hand. “Hello?”

“They’re fucking together.” Dylan spits into the phone, sounding somewhere between enraged and amazed – nether one something he associates with Stromer.

“They’re having sex?”

“No, they’re – I mean, probably? If Matthews’s not against it, I’m sure they’re getting nasty. But like, they’re actual boyfriends, and the shithead didn’t even tell me!”

“Oh, is Marner on of your ten?”

Dylan snorts but it’s kinder this way, softer as he clears his throat. “Yeah. Other than my brothers and Davo, and like, Mikey? I think Mitch was the first one I found.

“His string is on my middle finger, so in the beginning when we still hated each other, he would skate by our bench and chirp the shit out of us, so I would like give him the finger, but I would always have this string tying me to him. Which, kinda fucked shit up. But you know, everything worked out in the end.”

Nico hums softly as he mentally adds another couple of names to his list of Dylan’s blue strings.

“But Marner and Matthews are romantically involved, then?”

“Oh yeah, for sure. Put them down as a positive.” He confirms with a laugh. “That makes what? At least a couple of dozens. You know I’m shit at maths, but I’m pretty sure this is what they call a correlation.”

“That’s – “

“Or is it a causation? Hold on, I’m pretty sure Matty senior left some stats book here last time he came to visit.”

Nico whines and lets his head fall back against the pillows, “I don’t care, just let me –“ but Dylan has already hung up.

 

There is a couple of more incidents like that, Nico calling him up to talk about the strings he sees on people playing on the same teams, and Dylan either confirming the string’s colour or promising to investigate if it might happen sometime in the future.

Nolan thinks it’s a bit weird, or maybe he’s just jealous Dylan also knows about the strings – that he too can see them. Nico isn’t experienced enough to notice the difference when they’re not speaking face-to-face.

“Maybe if you talked to people other than Travis, I wouldn’t need Dylan.” Nico teases one night when Nolan is being particularly grumpy about being second to know about the two Swedes on the Capitals. “Also, do you even know either of them? Dylan at least played with –“

“That’s not what matters, Neeks.” Nolan cuts him off. He sounds angrier than the subject demands, and Nico is suddenly happy they’re only talking over the phone with the way his mouth twists in irritation. “You never tell me anything first. It’s always ‘Dylan says this, Stromer learnt that’. I know I’m not as popular as him, but like. I do know people, Neeks, don’t sell me short like this.”

Nico hums, “I don’t think you can say that about yourself, actually –“

“It’s a song, Hisch.” Nolan huffs. “But like, that’s not really the point.”

He sounds like he’s gearing up for a longer spiel, so Nico decides to nip it in the bud right away. He exhales deeply, long and exhausted to make Nolan stop speaking as he sits up in his bed and closes the movie he had half-heartedly been trying to watch.

“That is why I’m laughing, Nols. Yes, I talk to Dylan a lot, but it’s only about string stuff. When it comes to everything else, you’re the first one to know. Sometimes Jesper texts me and asks where I am, as I forget to tell him, because I’ve already told you and then doesn’t bother with him, because why would I?”

“It is not a competition, Nolan. Because we already know who would win, yes?” Nico says firmer, his jaw tight as he listens to the stutter in Nolan’s breath, harsh and abrupt.

“Yeah, Neeks. I guess we do.”

. . .

Nico can’t pin-point when his and Nolan’s relationship turned from fellow hockey players to friends and then to something _more_ , something different than they used to be. The change is gradual and oh so subtle, bits and pieces of how they interact with each other changing just the tiniest bit every day until Nolan is anything but a friend to him.

And like, Nico knows what it’s like walking the tightrope that is North American hockey; how to balance being gay in a sport that relies so much on homoerotic gestures while simultaneously being a part of an inherently homophobic institution.

Nico’s made the mistake once or twice, trying to be attracted to a hockey player so caught up in the game, their friendship so integrally bound to the affectionate nature of hockey culture that he hadn’t noticed Nico’s flirting had been more than just a buddy complimenting his game. But then, he’s never been burned by his missteps, always smart enough to know when the responses were appreciative rather than receptive.

Nolan is different.

Nico doesn’t want to get his hopes up, watching replays of Flyers games late at night when he can’t sleep, his chest getting tight and the butterflies in his stomach getting all fluttery. Nico doesn’t want it to be just because of the string tying them together – but then. Nolan doesn’t know about the string.

He doesn’t know that they’re destined to be together if the preliminary date is truly indicative of the tendency – “You know, it still might be a type I error.” Dylan says cynically, his head stuck in a ‘Intro to Stats’ book he had gotten after trying to plot the data into an excel sheet.

“It’s just two columns with either yes or no written in them.” Nico says sceptically as he squints at the not very reader-friendly table Dylan ha sent him.

“What? No, it’s not. This is how you present data, Hischier. There are fucking axis titles and shit, what more do you want? I even made a graph to make it easier to analyse.”

“Dyls, this does not make sense. Why do you need a graph?”

“Because of the statistical analysis. That’s why!”

Nico is usually the one to end their phone calls.

Despite all of this, the data and the significant p-value Dylan must have botched somewhere along the way, Nico knowing that him and Nolan are something akin to soulmates; Nolan is still the first one to admit he has feelings for Nico.

“Hey, so like. There might be a thing I need to tell you?” He says one night. His voice sounds more timid than Nico’s ever heard him, small and insecure and nothing like the strong confidence he usually associates with Nolan.

Nico nods slowly and pushes away from a sleeping Jesper to walk back to his own room.

“Yes?” He says and tries to ignore the rush in his stomach he usually gets when Nolan bites his lip like that, antsy and unsure about what is going to happen.

“Um, you know how we’ve been talking and like, it’s been a lot? Like, on non-game days I’m pretty sure I talk with you more than TK and shit, Neeks. I fucking live with the guy? Also, you’re kinda the only person I actually call who’s not like, my mom? How fucked up is that?”

Nolan laughs, but it doesn’t sound amused. There’s an increasingly panicked tone to it, and the wild look in his eyes is anything but settling.

And like.

Nico knows he can be a bit much, that he likes to attach to certain people and doesn’t like to let go when they’ve kept him around for the bare minimum of time. He knows he prefers a couple of best friends for life rather than an entire network of well-known people who _might_ come if he needs them to.

Nico just hadn’t thought his imprinting on Nolan had been so fucking obvious. “Nols, I – if you need me to –“

Maybe Nolan sees the panic on his face, how he’s starting to shake in fear of having overstepped any of Nolan’s boundaries, because suddenly he laughs again.

But this time it’s more sound, lighter and with a grin instead of the freaked-out expression he gets when he can’t score in OT. “You know, you get this little wrinkle between your brows when you think too hard, Hisch. It’s so fucking cute, has anyone ever told you that?”

“I am – what?”

“Cute, Neeks. I know it’s not ideal and shit to tell you this over the phone. But I kinda wanted to do something when you come to Philly, so now is better than never I suppose? I like you, Nico.”

Nico smiles, soft and sweet and cheeks warm with heat. “You like me?”

Nolan snorts, but his cheeks match Nico’s if not a shade darker and coverage more aggressive. “Yeah, buddy. I like you.”

 

Nico and Nolan kiss for the first time when they meet up after the game in Philly, Nolan kicking Travis out of the apartment so they can make out on the couch before Nico has to go back to his hotel.

“Can you imagine if we hadn’t done the stupid confession thing over the phone? If we actually had to talk before we came back here?” Nolan says between kisses, his voice hoarse as his finger tug at Nico’s suit jacket, which. Probably should have been left with the team if he wants to reuse it.

Nico laughs which quickly turns into a moan as Nolan bites down on his lip.

“I liked your stupid confession. You like me, remember?”

Nolan rolls his eyes but keeps pulling Nico closer, hands working to unfasten his pants. “You should stay over tonight, you’re not leaving until tomorrow. I’ll help sneak you back into the hotel.”

Nico whines and nips another mark onto Nolan’s throat, “I want to, Nolan. But – maybe next time?”

Nico really does want to stay. He wants to get up from the couch and be led into Nolan’s shitty bed that he bought without trying out first and now complains about when TK won’t let him sleep in his. He wants to let Nolan keep touching him until he remembers nothing but the two of them together, leaving with enough memories to last him until their next game against each other.

But Nico is still a rookie on an ELC with a roommate to go with it. And while Jesper is one of his best friends who aren’t German or used to play minor hockey in Halifax, he is notorious when it comes to fines; hoarding the money and blackmailing people into paying him directly instead of going through the As.

Nico might be projected to hit all of his performance bonuses, but he really doesn’t want to drop more than he has to on fines his first year in the league.

“You should come here for the All-Star weekend,” Nolan tells him instead. He sits up against the arm of the couch and pulls Nico into his lap with surprisingly smooth moves. “I have a game that Monday, but we play you on Tuesday. So unless you have practice that would give us a couple of days.”

Nico hums and runs a hand through Nolan’s hair, smiling absently as he says, “You can also come to Newark.”

“Teeks is going to Tucson, though.”

“ _Oh_.” Nico smirks and leans in to resume the kissing.

He cups his jaw and holds him steady, biting at Nolan’s lips and swiping at the seam of his lips until he opens his mouth. He feels him thrust up as he squeezes Nico’s hips tightly, pulling him in until they’re flushed together in every way.

Nolan breaks the kiss to pull his shirt off before going to work on the rest of Nico’s suit. “Are they, you know. Do they have a string?” He asks softly. He’s out of breath and panting, but there’s something so inherently sweet about the way he asks that Nico almost breaks down.

Instead, he leans forward and sucks another mark behind his ear. He grinds down until they’re both cursing into the other’s mouth, chasing their orgasms with a desperation Nico isn’t sure he’s ever going to lose when it comes to Nolan.

It’s later, when Nolan helps him out of the shower and into a pair of sweats that is bare except for the small Flyer’s logo only sort of covered by his shirt.

“You are lucky I also like you,” He says with a frown and packs up his suit in a bag that is going to make it obvious what he’s been doing.

“Yeah, Neek. I guess I am kinda lucky.”

And like. Nolan is not supposed to look so soft and happy with a smile on his lips and idents of Nico’s teeth on his neck when Nico has to leave in a couple of minutes.

“I will come in the All-Star weekend.”

“Yeah, you will.” Nolan smirks, preening smugly as he watches him huff and shuffle into his shoes before pulling his jacket back on.

“You are an idiot.” Nico says against his lips, kissing him once, twice before pulling away. “Um, and. Travis and Crouse do have a string between them. It is very red, very thick. A ‘sure thing’ as Dylan would say.”

“Oh,” Nolan says as he takes a step back to open the door for him, “That’s. I’ll be sure to tell him I approve then, not that like. Not that they need it, apparently.”

“Nols, I am –“

“No, like. I’m happy for them. Really.” He says softly. And he does smile at Nico when he finally looks up from the floor, but there’s a sad look in his eyes that makes Nico’s heart clench. “Have a safe flight, Neeks. And call me when you get back, yeah?”

“Yes, Nolan. I promise.”

 

Christmas comes and goes, and Nico stays in America to celebrate with Jesper and the rest of the team who don’t have immediate family around Newark.

It’s nothing like Christmas back in Switzerland. None of them can cook – nevertheless actually bake something that resembles the Christmas cookies his mom usually makes – the date is wrong, and the weather is too warm for snow. They do go skating outside, shitty figure skates rented from a bored teenager who doesn’t seem to recognise them, and at least that’s familiar.

In January, Nico goes directly from their last game to Nolan’s place still wearing his game day suit.

“Hey babe,” Nolan greets him with a smile as he herds him inside, Nico dead on his feet from the game and lack of rest. “I have leftovers in the fridge if you’re feeling up for it.”

Nico just shakes his head and lets himself be led into the bedroom, shitty bed and bad lighting and everything, just like he’s used to from their facetimes. “Usually people clean before they have guests over, Nols.” He hums tiredly as he strips off methodically, adding to the mess that already is Nolan’s floor.

“Usually people are a lot kinder to their boyfriends when they haven’t seen them in a month.” Nolan grumps back but starts to clean up a bit anyway. Well, he picks up the clothes and carries it to the already filled hamper before watching it fall back down onto the floor.

Nico hums happily and burrows farther under the sheets, pulling them up until they are covering his chin.

“What?” Nolan asks flatly as he strips off and gets in beside him.

Nico yawns, “You called me your boyfriend.”

“Well, what else do you want me to call you?”

“No, I like it.” He smacks his lips twice and considers if he wants to bother getting up to brush his teeth. He decides on no. “I’ll be your boyfriend, Nolan.”

 

Sex with Nolan is even better when Nico isn’t bone tired from a game.

It’s easy in a way Nico can’t remember sex being.

He knows some part of it comes from the fact that they don’t need to hide or hurry to get done in fear of someone’s billet mother catching them in the act; the security from knowing that they’re doing this in a place where they’re both feeling safe.

But, a part of it is because it’s Nolan in the bed next to him, unruly hair and voice deeper than usual as he teases another orgasm from Nico with only his mouth and fingers. Nolan who hands him his glasses when he squints and complains about forgetting to take out his contacts, Nolan who kisses the morning breath out of his mouth until they’re both slightly uncomfortable with the taste but too reluctant to leave the comfort of the bed; Nolan who still sounds completely monotone with a mouth around his dick and on the brink of orgasm.

They eat breakfast on the couch and watches the coverage of the first day in Tampa just to have something in the background while they make out.

Maybe it’s the comments made about Hallsy not being there, replaced by Boyler last minute, that makes him say it, or maybe it’s Nolan asking offhand questions about Dylan’s stupid excel sheet and attempts at data processing with nothing more than high school maths and a few college books he had picked up from the book store. But.

“I think something is wrong with Hallsy’s strings.” Nico says a bit sad, sitting in Nolan’s lap as he peppers kisses down his throat.

“What do you mean, babe?”

“I think,” he pauses and leans back to bite at the hand Nolan is using to cup his cheek, “The strings can change. They aren’t, what do you say? Set in rocks?”

“Stone, Neeks. It’s not set in stone.” Nolan laughs fondly, pulling his hand back but keeps it close to his mouth so he can thumb at Nico’s lip.

“Yes, that one.” Nico nods feverishly. “I don’t think new strings can come, but maybe they can disappear or become bad?”

Nolan stops, his hand hovering awkwardly next to Nico’s face. “What are you saying? Why would they change?” He asks. He leans back in the couch but keeps his hands on Nico’s thighs, keeping him from moving too far away.

Nico exhales and sits up a bit straighter, pulls back until the only point of contact between them are Nolan’s hands. “The strings are based on relationship, yes? Some are romantic, like Jost and that American boy from his team we found out about yesterday – Jompher? It that his name? – and then there are the blue ones, like all of Dylan’s which are more friendly.”

Nolan nods, only a bit hesitant.

“When I came to the team, Hallsy had a purple string – the only one I have ever seen. But really it was red _and_ blue,” he explains like Nolan doesn’t already know this, like Nico hasn’t spent night trying to figure this shit out; how the only guy with something even similar to a purple string was the Duck who was traded before Nico even sat foot in Newark.

“So you think the nature of the strings can change? Like, the connection is still there, but the circumstance of it can change its appearance?”

“Yes!” Nico nods eagerly, thankful that Nolan seems to understand what he’s saying so easily. “Also like Hallsy’s twisties; they used to be really tightly wound, and now they’re just touching each other.”

He knows now that they belong to Eberle and Nugent-Hopkins, that McDavid hadn’t been exactly enthusiastic about giving out information about them. But Dylan had somehow managed to find out that the three of them used to date before Hallsy got traded and even then, the two of them had kept going with Hallsy in Newark – which, with the Eberle trade now landing him on the island, would explain the sudden loosening of the helix.

He’s also noticed the piece of blue string loosely looped around McDavid’s own finger, looking so slack and frayed that it could easily slip off.

“But like, do you think people are born with the strings? Or do they come when people meet?” Nolan asks with a frown. There’s a bit of heat in his cheeks, just a smear of pink as he pulls Nico closer and back into his lap. “Do you, um. What if someone got together and like, fell in love – like ‘getting traded to the same team as the other’ in love – do you think they would get a string then?”

And Nico’s heart starts to ache over the hope in Nolan’s eyes, the lie on the tip of his tongue; the fear of disappointing him once again.

But Nico’s seen how in love some of his teammates are with their wives, the looks in their eyes when they stop by with the kids or offers to once again host the team nights; the pure adoration Nico so deeply longs for but can only hope to ever experience. How can he look at the emptiness between them and still tell Nolan a string might grow from nothing?

It would be easy, he supposes.

To one day wake up with surprise in his eyes and tell Nolan about the piece of thread hanging between them, brand new but solid red and thick like all the best are.

But would it be righting a wrong, or would it be just as bad as lying the first time?

Instead, Nico just shakes his head no and leans in to kiss the corner of Nolan’s mouth. “No, Pats. I don’t think that’s how it works.”

 

Nico stays through the Monday when Travis comes back home, his neck scattered with angry red marks and a crooked smile on his lips as he barges through the door.

He doesn’t seem as antagonistic as he usually is when Nico hears him in the background of their late-night calls, but even Nolan seems a bit softer around the edges, so Nico puts it down to the lengthy break they’ve had.

It’s nearing the end of the regular season and every point count when you’re competing for a wild card spot in the East – never mind the Metro division. The Flyers come in hot and take the two points, pushing them just above the Devils in the standings.

They haven’t really talked about the playoffs, how one of them are probably going to end up going on the back of the other’s team.

Nico doesn’t know how to bring it up, what to says – what he _wants_ to say. He knows the Devils aren’t in a ‘win now mode’, there’s no suffocating need to win hanging over their head like so many other teams have; nothing that’s going to change drastically from this season to the next.

But he still wants them to do well, if not for himself then for Hallsy who hasn’t played in a playoff game since he won the Memmer with the Spits back in ’10.

In the end, Nico keeps his mouth shut and sleeps one last night in Nolan’s bed before they’re back to competing against each other.

The Devils lose in overtime, and Nico goes back to Newark with an ache in his chest.

. . .

Somehow, they both make it into the playoffs. The top two drafting teams now solidly in playoff spots.

But it’s a short-lived relief. The Eastern Conference is still a bitch, and the Devils only manages to force a game five before Tampa Bay moves on to round 2.

The Flyers aren’t faring much better, once again up against the reigning champions, the Pittsburgh Penguins looking to go for the notorious three-peat. And for once, Nico doesn’t feel bad for cheering for another team.

They still lose, though, only holding them off one more game than the Devils could, before the post-season ends for the both of them.

 

It’s easy to wake up then, when he knows Nolan will be right there next to him.

He’s still asleep when Nico forces his eyes open, pale skin seeming brighter on the white pillow, his dusty hair messy and greasy, but Nico can’t help but think he hasn’t looked better.

Nolan’s hand is resting on his chest, long fingers and broad palm spread over his ribs as he holds him close even in his sleep; possessive in a way he doesn’t allow himself to be when he’s awake. And there, on the smallest of his fingers is the red string ever so neatly connecting to Nico’s own pinkie.

With Nolan so close to him, having had him near for more than just the quick nights they’d managed throughout the season, the string seems to have shortened to only about one metre or so of red thread lying between them.

Over the couple of months where Nico had known it was there, Nico has done a lot of stuff to his end of the string; even more after he learnt it was connected to Nolan.

It’s always with great caution. He’s seen some of the states the strings can be in, how broken and frayed they can look even between teammates who have been together for years. So Nico remembers to take care, to keep it out of harm’s way in case it’s not just something only he can see and touch.

It’s easy to forget himself lying there next to Nolan though.

He raises his hand and watches it extend itself towards the ceiling, long and impressive before he places his hand back on Nolan’s to watch it reduce to nothing but an inch between them. Nothing happens when he lets them meet, just Nolan’s hand pressed against his; no fireworks or buzzing running through his hand. But the string is soft to his touch, coarse but not unpleasantly so as he rubs it against his palm.

“What are you doing?” Nolan asks tiredly, his voice not quite a mumble but something close to it as it transitions into a yawn. He stretches his arms, moving it away from Nico’s grip to put it around him, and it’s not quite a whine Nico lets out but –

“Nico?”

“Good morning, No. Did you sleep well?”

Nico leans up to kiss him, just a quick peck before he’ll get up and brush his teeth, ready to finally do something other than lying in bed and avoiding all kinds of media that might mention hockey. But Nolan doesn’t stay put as he usually does, reluctantly indulging him in his bad habits.

Instead, Nolan moves away with a strange look in his eye. He sits up a couple of inches away from him and clears his throat. “Nico, what were you doing?”

Nico stutters. Wordless sounds leaving his mouth until he settles on a shrug. “I – nothing, Nolan. It’s not what you – “

“Why were you looking at our hands, Hisch?” He asks, his voice harsh as he gets up from the bed. “Why were you fucking looking at our hands like you do to Halls’ or G’s, or anyone else who has a fucking soulmate?!”

“It’s not soulmates –“ he argues weakly, because it’s not. Nico can’t know for sure with so few data points and with Nolan and Dylan as his only confirmation about the couples in the NHL. But maybe now isn’t the time to argue technicalities as Nolan’s breath gets faster, his cheeks getting blotchy red in a way that implies anger, and not just the cute fluster Nico is so fond of.

“Nico.” He says eerily calm, when his breathing is everything but. “You told me I didn’t have any strings, that _you_ didn’t have any. So why the fuck are you looking at our hands like there is one tying us together?”

“I never said I didn’t have any,” he cuts in softly, but Nolan just scoffs, harsh and angry, and that’s not what Nico wanted.  “ _Babe_ , I – we didn’t know what it meant. The strings, the colours, we weren’t even dating at the time!”

“So that meant that you could lie to me?!”

There’s something so _wrong_ about Nolan standing in front of him naked, hands on his hips and chest flushed, and Nico not being allowed to touch him. But there’s nothing soft about this Nolan, nothing but pure rage as he stares him down.

“I was still your _friend_ , Nico. Didn’t I deserve the truth?”

“Yes, of course you did, Nolan.” Nico sighs, loud and miserable. He shuffles off the bed and into the closest pair of boxers; anything to feel less vulnerable than he does right now. “And I tried, I just. I didn’t know –“

“Oh, you tried? That’s fucking great, Nico. What a decent human being you are, trying to make up for fucking lying to me.”

There’s a beat where Nico doesn’t breathe, stays stock-still as he just waits. He knows there’s nothing he can say right now that will make Nolan feel better, he lied and that’s. That wasn’t alright, but it made sense at the time. He just doesn’t know how to convey that.

“Just, get out.” Nolan finally says. He shakes his head and turns to step out of the room. “Get out please, I need. I need some time, some fucking space for me to think.”

And Nico can’t argue with that.

He pulls his clothes back on, grabs his phone off the coffee table where he had left it the night before and walks into the cold Philadelphian spring-air.

 

He comes back an hour later with a tray of coffees and the chocolate chip cookie Nolan pretends he doesn’t like. He knocks twice and tries not to stumble when the door is pulled open quicker than he had expected.

“Travis? Hi, I thought you had gone back home.”

Travis doesn’t look good for a guy whose boyfriend was supposedly waiting for him back home. But he doesn’t look tired either. It’s the tenseness around his eyes and the chewed-on lip that gives it away that something’s wrong – a twitch by his eye as he exhales deeply.

“Yeah, that’s what I thought as well.” He snorts shortly. “But apparently, you and Nolan were being shitheads and couldn’t be left alone. So here I fucking am.”

“Well, that’s?” Nico frowns. He tries to side-step him to get into the apartment, but Travis blocks the door keeping him standing on the mat. “Is Nolan ready to talk?” He asks instead, voice timid as he looks over his shoulder for a sign that Nolan might come out.

“He left, Hischier, yeah? Packed his things and went back home to Winnipeg.”

And that’s, no. That doesn’t sound right.

“No,” Nico says firmly, shaking his head. “Nolan wouldn’t do that.”

They had made plans to spend the start of the off-season together. First here in America, then moving to Canada to see the cities they never got around to during juniors before jetting off to whatever island in southern Europe Nolan wanted to see the most.

“Yeah, fuck him right? Not like his boyfriend didn’t lie to his fucking face about the premise of their entire relationship, eh?” Travis spits out. Nico might be used to him being antagonistic and bordering on mean, but this was a whole new level for him.

“That’s not –“

But Travis laughs, short and abrupt as he leans back to pick up Nico’s bag to throw it at his feet, “I don’t even fucking care, bud. I don’t know what kind of weird shit you and Nolan have been doing, or why he won’t tell me what happened, but you fucked up, dude.”

. . .

Going back to Switzerland seems like more of a defeat than the early playoff exit.

For a while he entertains the thought of stopping by in Winnipeg to see whether Nolan did show up for their plane to Mallorca, but even the shitty airport WiFi manages to retrieve the cancellation email Nolan must have requested as he boards the plane to go home.

He comes home with a heavy heart and a sullen mood. He blames it on the early playoff exit and that’s enough to make his family leave him alone.

It doesn’t help that neither of them is nominated for the Calder.

Nico’s a bit bitter that none of the nominees are from their draft year, all of them players already with professional experience, if only just for a couple of games before being sent down. At least McDavid was nominated in 2016 even if it did end up going to a 24-year-old with a Gagarin cup under his belt.

The live stream feed he’s found is shitty and the time difference between Vegas and Europe is ridiculous.

But he gets to see Boyler win the Masterton, and then Hallsy with his voice oddly teary as he accepts the Hart as he first Devils player even to win it. So even if they couldn’t get him past the first round, at least he’ll have this.

Nico doesn’t quite roll his eyes and huff when Barzal wins the Calder, but it’s close.

The camera turns to the crowd, showing the audience clapping, the veterans and the other nominees, Keller and Boeser looking resigned but too placid to show anything other than polite indifference. And then it zooms in on a small crowd of people, the description letting him know it’s Barzal’s family and friends, and there, tucked away behind another Barzal and someone Nico is pretty sure isn’t a hockey player, is Anthony Beauvillier. 

It’s not that uncommon to bring a friend to the Award’s, Nico guesses, especially not when you’re up for an award as big as the Calder. And with the rich history there is between Barzal and Tito – roommates and sharing a language for several years, drafted to the same team and fully making the team the same year, playing on a line together – it’s not going to look out of place, with Tito tucked between his brother and father. 

But the way Tito is looking up at Mat, the softness of his eyes and how he’s smiling so pleased with a grin too wide for his face can really only belong to a proud boyfriend.

It’s not quite what Nico wants.

It’s too close to what he didn’t get to have, how he could have been there himself with Nolan in the crowd, one of them leaving Vegas with a trophy at the end of the season instead of this fucked-up early off-season. But at least he had been right about the string between them, bright red and almost shining as they had flown down the ice together.

He takes a snap of the screen and sends it off to Dylan with _“”best friends””_  written across it.

Dylan doesn’t reply, probably still cranky about his own playoff exit, but Nico can see he saw It, and that’s enough for now.

 

July comes around and – Nico loses his ability to see the strings.

It isn’t a gradual thing either. Just like their appearance in Nico’s life, they disappear as he steps onto the ice.

His family is skating behind him, laughing happily as his father lets himself be dragged around by his sister, so there isn’t really room for him to freak out about the sudden lack of strings tied to people’s fingers. But Nico stays shaky on his feet and skates worse than he has since someone handed him a stick and a puck and told him to aim for the back of the net.

Maybe it’s because it doesn’t really kick in before he gets back to the apartment he’s rented for the summer and sits down on the couch, alone and clear-headed as he looks down at his bare hand.

There’s no string around it anymore, just his right hand looking oddly naked without the red thread tied around his pinkie. It’s strange how nine months can change your perception of reality, how quickly you adjust to things that hadn’t even been there for that long.

They’re supposed to take off for Spain the next day – the trip he had planned for Nolan and him – and Nico doesn’t have a good excuse for cancelling, so he goes off to sulk instead of staying in Nater.

They leave him alone in the airport to pick up their bags, and Nico doesn’t know why he does it, but suddenly he’s panicking and calling up Nolan. He doesn’t recall a thing about time differences at the moment, but then, it’s never really been a problem before; Nolan always used to pick up, even when he called in the middle of the night.

But he doesn’t pick up this time, the beeps getting longer until the automatic message Nolan never got around to change plays out.

The days still go on, and despite the sudden loss of something so fundamental for his everyday life, Mallorca is great at taking his mind of it. He drinks a bit too much, strays off his off-season diet, and at times the heat is too much to get even a light workout in. Instead, he stays by the pool, waving off his family when they try to make him go on hikes with them, trips to the old town with the spices and flowers they bring home in large numbers.

It doesn’t help that he keeps seeing phantom-strings on guys disappearing swiftly around corners, his phone feeling like it’s always vibrating but staying empty from calls from Nolan.

He lasts until late July when he finally breaks down can calls Dylan.

He doesn’t mention it at first. They’ve got plenty of other stuff to talk about that isn’t related to the strings. Like, how Dylan is clearly due for a call up to the big leagues, or the rumours about Barzal and Tito getting hitched in Vegas – “They’re just trying to keep some stability,” Dylan says at some point in July, when the news about Tavares finally breaks, “Can’t really blame them, eh?”

But even with Dylan’s endless stories about his guys in the league and what they’ve been up to over this unusually long summer, they still end up where they started.

“So uh, how is Patty doing?”

The thing is, Nico never specifically mentioned his relationship with Nolan, nor the presence of a string around his finger. But somehow, Dylan had still gotten the gist of it.

“It wasn’t really that hard to figure out,” He’ll say later, a smirk on his lips and an intruding arm around Nolan’s shoulders, “if it wasn’t something about the strings, it was something about Nolan or how well the Flyers were doing, ‘They’re third in the East, Dyls. Did you know that?’ Even if I didn’t know, I would _know_.”

“That’s not.” Nico would splutter as he pushes Dylan away from Nolan to take his place, “I never said that, I wouldn’t call you Dyls.”

Now though, Nico clears his throat and swallows. “We are uh, that’s not a thing anymore.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah, we – No, _he_ decided we shouldn’t see each other anymore.”

Dylan hums on the other end of the phone, and Nico can’t help but echo it. “Why didn’t tell me, Nics?”

Nico stutters, “That’s. I fucked up, Dyls. It’s –“

“That’s not what I asked, man.” And he sounds vaguely disappointed, “I know we’re not like, best friends or something. But we talk a lot, bud. And I kinda thought we were at that stage where we told each other about that stuff.”

So Nico tells him about the plans they had made, how Nico had thrown him out of his apartment and left him to find his way back through Philadelphia on his own. How distressed he had been all summer without knowing where they stood with no word from Nolan, nothing but the swift acknowledgement he had gotten through Travis that faithful day.

He doesn’t mention he lie though; he doesn’t want Dylan to hate him too.

. . .

It’s a month before the organisation starts making noise about training camp when Nico finally breaks down.

It’s almost perfunctory now to call Nolan first, to wait out the few minutes before the automatic voice asks him to wait for the beep before leaving his message. He knows if he were to listen to the message again, it would be absolute shit, just him freaking out for two minutes before being cut off mid rant.

Instead, he calls up Dylan and rambles on about nothing for a while until Dylan stops him.

“Hey Nics! It’s not that I don’t enjoy your company, but you need to tell me what the fucking problem is if you want my help.”

And Nico’s spent too long running in circles around his fucking problems. So he comes clean, takes a deep breath and finally lets everything rip, spitting out words and short sentences about the strings he can’t see anymore, about Nolan and how he lied; how he doesn’t really sleep at night because him seeing the strings are so inherently intertwined with NHL hockey, and if he doesn’t have one, then how can he still do the other?

“Matty, shut the fuck up!” He hears Dylan yell on the other end, harsh and abrupt as he the noise suddenly disappears, “Nics, are you saying you can’t see the strings anymore?”

“I, yeah. That’s what I’m saying.” Nico says, nodding helplessly even when Dylan can’t see him. “I thought maybe it was the same for you too.” He adds quieter, softer in a way that’s meant to soften the blow, but no matter how he poses it, it still comes out a bit rude.

“Nics, buddy –“

“Oh, okay. I just, maybe it went both ways, but apparently not, no?”

“Yeah, yeah, no. I’m sorry, Nics.

They keep up the calls after that.

Dylan checking in a couple of times a week just to catch up, and suddenly Hallsy starts calling, asking if they should meet up in Newark before training starts. It’s not hard to figure out how that happened, is the thing. Dylan with his obvious connections to McDavid, who despite the rumours about bad blood in Edmonton, still obviously cares about Taylor.

But Nico doesn’t really mind it. It’s nice hearing from Hallsy again, having someone worry about him just because he’s him and not because the strings disappeared.

 

He’s facetiming with Dylan when someone yawns at his end.

“Uh, Dyls. Did you hear that?” Nico asks concerned as he tries to zoom in on the corners of Dylan’s screen, trying to find someone who isn’t supposed to be there.

Dylan stops mid-rants and frowns, “Huh? Oh that’s just Mitchy taking a nap, or you know, waking up from it.” Someone raises a hand and waves lazily at the camera.

“That’s. Hello Mitch?” Nico says as Mitchell sits up looking rumbled with unruly hair and ruddy cheeks as he leans against Dylan’s shoulder.

“What’s up, Hischier? Looking forward to the next season? Too bad about the playoffs, eh?”

It’s still a bit too soon for Nico to talk about, but he nods out of politeness. “So you’re still in Toronto then? Not going off to some fancy island?”

“Nah, been there, done that, you know? Now I’m just hanging out with my boy here, before he’s leaving us for Arizona.” Mitch says with a soft smile, bumping their shoulders together. “Making the big show this year, eh?”

Dylan’s cheeks flush, but there’s a stupidly happy smile on his lips as he reaches for Mitch’s hand, “What can I say? We gotta keeps the #boys together, don’t we?”

Nico is about to comment on the use of hashtag in actual verbal conversation and how Dylan might need to update his slang a bit more, when he sees it.

They’re both leaning in to kiss the other’s thumb – some dumb ritual they apparently developed during one of the dozen tournaments they had participated in together – but Nico can’t really pay attention to any of it, because his focus is entirely on the string hanging taut between their hands, bright blue and mocking as Nico lets out a gasp.

It doesn’t take long for his eyes to dart to string hanging off Mitch’s other finger, the red one leading to Auston still as clear as day.

“Did you lose any of your strings?” Nico suddenly blurts out, too stressed to even consider Mitch not knowing about the strings. But it’s doesn’t seem all that important considering Dylan now only has six blues hanging off his fingers.

“I’m – what do you mean, Nics? No they didn’t chang – wait, can you see them?” He asks just as urgently. He leans in closer to the camera and stares at Nico intensely, making sure to keep his hand clasped with Mitch’s in frame. “Nico, can you see the strings?”

Nico nods, just once but it’s very stern, confident as he starts to tremble. “Yes. I can see the blue tying you to Mitch, the red one hanging from his other finger. But there are only six blue ones tied to your hands, Dyls. You’re missing four.”

Mitch doesn’t seem to react, so he must know. But Dylan starts to frown and lets go off his hand.

“Can you see this one?” He asks and points to the one belonging to the oldest Strome and Nico nods before he moves along, going through them until Dylan appears to have identified the ones Nico can’t see. “Hang on, let me try this. Matty! Get your ass in here and bring Ryan with you!” He yells loudly, projecting towards the closed door with a confidence only tried and proof methods give you.

Someone who looks vaguely like Dylan comes through the door with another guy trailing behind him, looking relaxed as he throws himself down between Dylan and Mitch.

“What the fuck do you want, fuck face?” The guy who must be Matty huffs. He looks very unimpressed with Dylan, crossing his arms and staring down his brother. “Not all of us can slack around all day you know, some of us are actually trying to make the show.”

“Oh fuck off, why don’t you?” Dylan says with a roll of his eyes as he pushes him down to sit next to Ryan. “Hisch, this is my brother Matty and his, uh, _friend_ , Ryan – Ouch, stop fucking hitting me. Please show Nico your hands, guys.”

“Why? Is he some kind of freak?” Matt grumbles but throws his hands up anyway, “I mean, no offence dude. But Dylan’s friends tend to be a bit on the weird side.”

Mitch snorts but cuffs him on the back of his head anyway, “You’re such a little shit, Matty. See if I get you Aus’ autograph now.” Matty splutters out something that sounds vaguely offensive, but Nico is too busy looking at the very fine piece of red thread hanging between the two new arrivals.

He meets Dylan eyes over Matty’s shoulder and nods very carefully. Dylan raises his brows but doesn’t really look surprised, “Alright boys, that’s it. Get out of here before I tell mom why you shouldn’t be allowed to sleep in the same room.”

“Didn’t take you for a snitch, Strome.” Ryan yells when he’s halfway out of the room, Matty following close behind with a lone middle finger raised as he slams the door shut.

“They’re together? The string was red, at least.” Nico tells him quietly.

He feels sorry for Mitch who seems to have tuned out completely as he scrolls through his phone, leaning on Dylan’s shoulder with a disinterested look on his face. But this – the constant cycles between bone deep relief and nervousness from being able to see the strings again – kind of trumps whatever compulsory politeness is left over from his upbringing.

“I mean, they haven’t said anything official, but we’re pretty sure.” Dylan says with a one-side shrug. “So, the strings you can’t see belong to people who don’t play hockey, at least not anymore. I’m guessing you still can’t see your brother’s for example?”

Nico shakes his head, “I saw him this morning and there was nothing. But I also don’t really know when this started up again?”

Dylan hums. “So you lost the ability to see strings that don’t belong to hockey players, but now you can somehow see them even when you’re not actually there. That wasn’t a thing before, right? Like, you had to be there to actually to see the strings.”

“Yeah, it didn’t work long distance.”  

They’re quiet for a while, just taking everything in when Dylan clears his throat, just as tad of nervousness as he says, “Nico, I’m. Can you see your own?”

And – Nico hadn’t even thought about that in the middle of everything; it never occurred to him that seeing Dylan’s strings, seeing Mitch’s and apparently Dylan’s brother’s and his not-boyfriend might mean his own was back as well.

“I can’t, Dyls. What if it’s not there?” He whispers miserably. He keeps his eyes firmly on the screen, trying to ignore the rest of the room as he tucks his hands underneath his thighs. “What if it’s not meant to be there anymore?”

“You have to know though.” Dylan reasons. “It’s better to know, don’t you think? You’ll find out anyway, but at least this way you won’t be surprised when you suddenly look down and don’t know what to expect.”

Nico sucks in a breath of air.

But Dylan is right. Even if the string isn’t there anymore, it’s better to know now before the season starts so he’ll at least have some time to process it before he has to face off against Nolan. “Okay, yeah. I’ll look,” and he does; just a quick glance down at his right hand before he’s breathing again, slow and steady with a smile on his lips.

The string is there, red and thick as it had been months ago, but so inherently Nolan&him that is hurts to look at. But it’s a good hurt, he settles on. Something to remind him what they did have, proof that it wasn’t just a fluke.

“Okay, we’re okay.” Nico lets out, suddenly exhausted.

And that’s that.

The strings are back in their places, and Nico can finally breathe again.

“You know, you should come to Arizona for a while. We’re flying out in a couple of weeks, and you seem like you could use a break from everything before the season starts.” Dylan suggests in the tail end of the call, carefully offhanded but there’s something so sincere in his eyes as he watches Nico lay back on the couch. “The heat does wonders for your mental health.”

 

So Nico goes.

He has a layover in Newark to leave some of his stuff that he brought from Nater before he flies out to Toronto to meet up with Dylan and Mitch who is apparently also flying to Arizona – “Auston, uh, wanted me to really meet the family, so you know.”

Nico likes Arizona in the way he likes states with suffering heat and not much to do. But Dylan’s house is nice and the few teammates that are already hanging out don’t seem to mind his presence. At least that is until Lawson Crouse arrives with the ever-joyful Travis Konecny.

It’s not entirely their fault he leaves early but being around TK and Crouse – who have obviously spent the majority of the summer together with how in-tuned they are with each other – does nothing for his aching chest and the memories about Nolan and TK’s tiny apartment in Philly. 

So Nico leaves Arizona more exhausted than he came. But it’s a different kind of exhaustion. He’s no longer on the brink of a nervous break down because of lack of sleep or the stress of starting a new season, the fear of facing off across of Nolan some time in early November. Instead, he feels settled, ready for the games that are to come.

. . .

Nico tells Jesper about he strings before the pre-season ends.

It’s more out of boredom than anything else, really. He’s lying with a pack of ice on his ankle, nursing an injury from a practice the day before, and his head in Jesper’s lap with strict instructions not to turn on the television.

“Did you know I can see strings between people?” Nico muses out loud, his voice half distracted as he tries to count the floorboards in their ceiling – twenty-seven, give or take a few.

“What?” Jesper asks. He sounds disinterested, but his brows are lifted and there’s definitely something sparkling in his eyes.

So Nico tells him about the strings, about Dylan – without mentioning his name, of course – about he guy he had loved and lost all within a couple of months, losing the threads only to get them back, but oh so differently.

“You used to have one,” he tells him with a soft smile. He remembers seeing the red string tying Jesper with his high school sweetheart who had made the trip to Jersey as a part of her graduation present from her parents. The thread between them burning bright and thicker than Nico had seen between most. “I can’t see it anymore, but it was very pretty, Bratts.”

He can tell Jesper doesn’t really believe him. But he likes the way Jesper nods with a soft smile and tells him, “Sure Hisch, that sounds about right.” Because at least now he has someone other than Dylan to talk to about them.

 

The Devils start on a tear through October.

Their legs are fresh, and the chemistry is clicking, everyone is fired up about the new season and ready to redeem themselves.

Hallsy seems happier too, the Eberle and RNH’s red strings burning just a bit brighter, sitting together a bit tighter as he pulls Nico in for a hug after their win over Washington. “That’s how it’s done, rook!” He screams excitedly, letting him go to congratulate Kinker on the shutout.

November is different.

They start off with dropping five games, only winning one in Pittsburgh. It’s a shitty record, and no matter what they do, they can’t seem to save Kinker’s save percentage.

And of course, that’s when the text comes in.

**_Can we talk aftr the game?_ **

_Why?_

…

…

When Nolan doesn’t reply right away, Nico tries to get up and actually do something that doesn’t make him seem pathetic. But he’s too nervous, stressed out with his heart in his throat as moves to turn down the volume of the television just to have something to do with himself.

**_I listned to ur voicmails_ **

**_Stromer mention somehting over summer but I iddnt wnt to hear it_ **

**_Neeks im sorry about th strings_ **

And that’s, kind of what Nico thought he wanted to talk about.

It hurts though, knowing that it took the strings disappearing and Nolan being _drunk_ for him to finally contact Nico. It’s not even that late, and with a game tomorrow, Nolan really shouldn’t be at this point already.

 _yes._  

_I’ll meet you outside the locker room, i do have a curfew though_

**_I thot phlly was your exception????_ **

**_shit mn sorry Neeks_ **

**_ofc you changed it_ **

**_not like uve another soulmate in phily eh_ **

_Nolan if you still want me to meet you then please stop texting me_

_You should properly get home and get some sleep before tomorrow_

_Good night_

Nico turns off his phone and doesn’t touch it until the next morning when he has to get up for practice.

Nolan apparently decided to take his advice or at the very least didn’t text him again before this morning; just a single message dated at 7:38 am.

**_I’m sorry Hisch. I didn’t mean any of that. If you still want to I would like to meet up_ **

Nico sends back a single thumbs up before he puts it on silent and goes to wake up Jesper.

The Devils shut out the Flyers, and for a couple of minutes, Nico lets himself be happy about the win.

They won against the Pens just a few days ago, so it’s not quite the relief of breaking a bad streak, but it’s nice knowing they can at least still manage wining two in a row.

Nolan is already waiting for him when he arrives at the home locker room, changed into a pair of jeans and a nondescript sweater – his suit left with Jesper who had looked suspicious but hadn’t asked. Nolan looks the same as he always had, his hair is longer though, messier than the neat cut he had gotten around the draft.

He doesn’t look sad like he usually did when the Devils managed to beat them, pouty and whiny as he would put his arms around Nico and demand to be held and comforted for his loss. Instead, he looks something closer to pensive as he takes him in, only a bit of the residual flush left in his cheeks.

“Hey Neeks.” He says carefully, but there’s a smile on his lips.

“Hi Nolan.”

They end up at one of the cafés they used to visit back when Nico was in Philly whenever they didn’t have a game in a couple of days. The coffee is great, and the food is decent, but somehow Nico doesn’t think they’re about to eat much.

Nolan is the one to bring up the strings.

There’s a part of Nico that dies a little when he starts talking about the phone calls he had made over the summer, how desperate he had been to talk with Nolan, to have him say anything back to him just to ease the pain of losing the strings. How Nolan talks about Dylan almost bullying him into listening to them, aggressive and persistent – Nolan doesn’t quite describe it like that, but Nico knows Dylan, knows how he can get when he disagrees with something.

“That must have been horrible for you,” Nolan says in that monotone voice of his that if Nico didn’t know better would sound unbothered. But Nico can hear the sadness there.   

“Hmm,” Nico hums. He grips his cup tighter, he doesn’t feel like drinking coffee anymore not when Nolan is looking at him like that.

“I mean, your entire perception of love – of _life_ – just. Disappeared? Hisch, that’s awful.”

Nico laughs, but it’s muted; fake in a way it usually isn’t around Nolan. “I don’t. Not really, though? I mean, it kinda sucked, but I was more bummed about you breaking up with me?”

“What?”

Nico shrugs. “At that point it was kinda just, piling up? You breaking up with me, no playoff hockey to focus on, no Calder nomination; the strings leaving? It wasn’t really that bad compared to the rest of stuff I had going on.”

“That’s no. Neeks,” and it sounds almost pleading.

“You do know I didn’t have the strings for that long, right? They only came in the beginning of last season.” Nico tells him seriously. “I know you have some idea that everything about me is somehow related to the strings, but for most parts of my life, I didn’t have the strings to guide me. The guys I dated in juniors was because I liked them, how they acted, how they looked at me. The same thing with you, No. I didn’t date you because we had some fucking string between us, I dated you _despite_ the string.”

Nolan looks flustered, adorably confused as he keeps opening his mouth, but nothing ever comes out, so Nico keeps talking.

“I mean, take Hallsy again.” He says with a soft smile, “If the strings can disappear, weaken and wane, then it can’t be fool proof, can it? Like what’s there to say it’s even actually true? I only know Dylan and me who can see them, so really there’s no solid proof they exist.”

Nolan sucks in a deep breath, looking torn as he finally meets Nico’s eyes. “Then why didn’t you tell me? If you don’t really believe it means anything definite – if it’s not a do or die situation – then why didn’t you just say, ‘Oh hey, by the way, those strings I keep talking about? Yeah, there’s one tying us together, but you know, it probably doesn’t mean anything.’”

Nico shrugs. He feels a bit timid now as he says, “To be honest, I don’t really know? I think some of it was novelty? It was still early and I didn’t know a lot about it. How was I supposed to explain something I didn’t really get myself?”

It’s not enough, Nico can already see the way Nolan falls in on himself, the way his shoulders go up and his breath shudders. “Yeah, okay Neeks. It’s getting late though, we better get you back to the hotel.”

It’s not quite the progress he wanted out of the night, but there’s a text from Nolan when he wakes up in the morning, and at least that’s a start.

. . .

It takes time.

Careful texts about neutral stuff that Nolan can ignore if he doesn’t feel like talking to him. A smile across the ice when they touch down in Newark, hands not lingering when the game ends with a loss, but he does get a hug as he slips off the ice, and that’s more than he’s gotten in a while.

He doesn’t chirp him about the popularity Gritty gains over the very short time the Flyers get him, the almost cult following that no one really gets, but all goes along with because hockey is a dying sport and all publicity is good publicity if you ask Bettman.

Neither of their teams are doing very well, Philly especially struggling with their goaltending – a clear frustration for the team. It doesn’t help that Nolan gets injured and has to sit out, then returning and being placed on the fourth line.

So Nico drifts away from the hockey talk.

He asks about what Nolan did over the summer and tries not to clench his teeth whenever Nolan replies. Nolan talks about the trips he and TK went on, hunting and camping out in the woods because the summer was the only time they were able to; about going to Arizona to get away from home – Nico doesn’t mention he went there just a week before him, that they might have run in to each other if Dylan hadn’t sent him on his way after Hallsy’s insistency to see him.

Christmas comes and goes with Nico still in Newark.

Jesper and him buy a tree and invite the guys over to decorate it. But none of them has any idea how to make decorations without cutting themselves on the scissors, so Jesper buys a star to put at the top and declares it done.

There’s a present underneath the tree when he wakes up the 25th.

Jesper and him had opened their gifts the day before after getting home from Greene’s place, trying to keep at least parts of the European Christmas alive. So he’s not sure where it comes from, but there is a card and his name written in sloppy letters too familiar for his heart not to start beating rapidly.

 _Hey Neeks._  
I sent this to Bratt hoping he would give it to you on Christmas day, but he doesn’t seem to like me, so here’s to hoping, eh?  
I know we didn’t decide to exchange gifts, but I thought you should have something to make Christmas a little more ~~Sweess~~ ~~Swit~~ familiar.  
I’ll see you in the new year,  
Nolan. 

Nico opens it, and –

It’s a box of the chocolates he had brought over from Switzerland, the ones he had kept talking about when they had gotten closer to the end of the season and his secret storage had run dry. He hadn’t told Nolan the name, but he had shared enough of the pieces with him that he apparently managed to figure out the brand.

He can’t stop smiling as he takes a quick snap and sends it off to Nolan, _thank youuu_ written across it.

 

January comes around and with Taylor still out with an injury, Nico gets tapped to cover the Devil’s spot in the All-Star game.

He doesn’t really know to feel about it.

He knows a lot of the guys going this year will be there for the first time, some of them even on their own like him. But Nico isn’t known for his many inter-team friendships, he hasn’t won awards or is leading the scoring race to make that enough of an attractant for people to just naturally circle around him to bask in his glory.

He stumbles a bit through the skills day, he doesn’t win his challenge, and when Crosby pats him on the back and says, “You’ll just have to put in a bit more work.” he doesn’t know how to reply, other than blink owlishly at him until he turns his attention back to staring intensely at the ice.

“You don’t have to worry about him, kid. He’s just like that, he gets a bit weird when you remove him from his guys. You should’ve seen him during the World cup.” Someone says to his left, an accent that sounds vaguely familiar as he turns around and –

Claude Giroux really should look awful in Flyers orange, but somehow he makes it work.

Nico gets why Nolan likes his captain so much. He’s responsible on the bench, helpful towards the rookies but without making it sound condescending, fun and chirpy in a way that reminds Nico about junior hockey, where even if you’re chasing the cup at the end of the season, you’re still just kids with needs and interests other than hockey.

He’s almost about to tag along to dinner with Barzy and the rest of the Eastern guys when he hears someone yell out in kind German, the accent even more familiar than his brief chat with Draisaitl had been.

“Hischier right?” Roman Josi asks with his brilliant smile and white teeth, looking prettier than Nico remembers from the posters on his wall.

And there’s something so relieving about slipping back into German, that small part of him that he keeps repressing because he misses speaking it so _fucking_ much that it almost hurts. “Yeah, that’s. Nico please, but you can also call me Hisch, that’s what the teams does. But I’m not picky, it’s whatever really.”

Roman is frowning, pinching his lips like he’s trying not to laugh but it’s a struggle. “Hisch then, I just wanted to invite you to dinner. I know how it is being in a league where no one speaks your language, I know it can be hard sometimes, so I thought you might want to talk for a bit. Pekka is coming with which ever Finns he can pick up, but otherwise we’ll just get some food and then you can join the other guys going out later, if that is your thing.”

Nico quickly agrees and lets himself be led to whatever restaurant they had decided on.

It’s a bit weird sitting amongst people yelling in excited Finnish across the table, Pekka trying to convince the young guys into at least somewhat behaving when the server comes around. But Roman’s German is soft and familiar, and he doesn’t stop asking about life back home, how he liked the Swiss league and why he decided to play for the Mooseheads.

The text comes in when he’s sitting on the bench nursing a hang-over the next day, and if that isn’t enough, the fact they’re allowed to have their phones out in between shifts is so world-tilting that Nico’s not sure he’ll know how to play NHL hockey when he gets back to Newark.

**_u look good out there_ **

And Nico’s heart almost breaks in memory of what they did this time last year.

But he replies anyway, stoic as Barzal pushes another bottle of Gatorade his way, “Drink up bud, you look a bit green.” The bright red string leading to Tito only slightly covering a very obvious tan-line around his ring-finger.

_thanks_

_i still like staying home better tho_

. . .

It’s during one of the rare phone calls with Dylan – now that they finally decided he could play with the big boys instead of burning years of his ELC, his time didn’t really allow for multiple hours of shit-talking anymore, at least not with non-essentials like Nico.

“Can you, uh.” Dylan blurts out at some point making Nico pause in the middle of his sentence.

Not because of the interruption, because Dylan’s patience is shit, and if he doesn’t just come out and say it, he’ll forget it within a couple of minutes and then spend the next hour being grumpy about that. But Dylan actually sounds hesitant, insecure like he normally doesn’t.

“Do you remember Hallsy’s string?” And Dylan knows he does, there’s probably little he knows better than those four pieces of thread.

“Yes.”

“Remember that weird one that you thought was purple?”

Nico is about to correct him, because actually it was a _gradient_ of colour, but then Dylan is raising his hand, and _oh_. Because there, tied around his middle finger that isn’t Mitch’s, is an almost perfect replicate of Taylor’s purple string. Except this time, it’s inverted; the red starting from his knuckle and spreading towards the middle where it turns a soft blue and disappears underneath the door which must go back into the livingroom.

“That’s Debrincat’s string, yes?”

Dylan nods, a bashful smile on his lips as he slowly lowers his hands again, but the red keeps standing out amongst the other blue strings.

“I guess the trade worked out then.” He adds lightly. They had all opinions on Chicago and the players they decided to play. Despite all the two of them had been through, Nico didn’t know where Dylan fell on that spectrum.

But then Dylan scoffs, a complicated look on his face before he says, “I mean, I still hate the organisation, everything they stand for and a big chuck of my teammates. That’s not really something you can say during a presser though, you know? But they gave me back Brinksy, so if anyone had to be sent here, it might as well be me, eh?”

Nico doesn’t quite let out a sigh of relief, but it’s a close thing.

“So ah, did you tell him?” He asks softer, carefully.

Dylan frowns for a while before a flash of pity is clear on his face. It’s wiped away quick enough, but Nico still sees it, still feels the absolute tear trough his heart at the thought of being able to change the past.

“I mean, he knew I had the strings and that one of them was for him, but.” Dylan starts in a soft voice, looking anywhere but at Nico. “All of this, me being in love with him and him, returning it, I guess? Started before the string begun to change colours.”

“What?”

“Yeah, like, we’ve been dating for a good while? And all of a sudden today the string just started to change.”

“The string didn’t stop you from trying?” Nico asks curious, “You know, with it being blue an all?”

Dylan shrugs, but he doesn’t look concerned. “Even if we weren’t soulmates or _whatever the fuck the strings mean_ ,” he adds with a roll of his eyes before Nico can interrupt him, “It’s still Alex, you know? He’s still the one I want to be with at the end of the day, still the one I think of when I think of home. It’s just, it makes sense. Even if I didn’t have a stupid string to tell me so.” 

 

Only a day goes by before Nico starts to get restless.

He knows a lot of what Dylan had said really settled within him. The easiness he had spoken with about his feeling for Alex, how it never occurred to him to hide the strings from him, because why would he? It didn’t change anything between them – they were always mean to be together.

It clears up a couple of things for him, is the thing.

 

It only takes a couple of knocks before someone is opening the door, looking tired and unimpressed.

“What are you doing here, Hischier? No one invited you.” Travis says as he crosses his arms across his chest. He’s wearing a pair of pyjamas pants and a junior hockey shirt, his hair rumbled and out of place, and Nico almost feels bad about waking him up from his nap, but not enough to leave.

“I need to talk with Nolan, is he here?” He says instead, taking a careful step back when TK seems to puff out his chest.

“Listen here –“ “Trav, what’s going on?” Someone calls from inside the apartment, and Nico knows that voice anywhere.

“Nothin–“ “Nolan, please!” Nico yells back. He ignores the way TK is staring at him and moves to the other side of the door to wave at him. “Will you. Can I talk with you, No? Please, just for a little while. I promise if you want me to leave, I will.”

“There’s nothing for you here anymore, Hischier. I don’t know what you’re doing here, but –“

“Teeks, it’s.” Nolan cuts him off as he moves closer to the door, brushing up against Travis so he can nudge their shoulders together. “I want to talk to him, please.”

“Patty, it’s not a good idea.” Travis replies, turning back to face Nolan who keeps his eyes on Nico. “Please don’t do this to yourself again.” He adds a bit more pleadingly, but Nolan doesn’t seem to want to move, staying strong as Travis finally exhales, leaving with only a quick pat to his side. “You better start counting tears, Hischier, because that’s the hits I’m going to lay on you during our next game.”

Nico nods. He doesn’t mention they’ve already played all four games against the Flyers, that both of them are out of a playoff spot and not likely to make it this year. He gets the gist of it.

“What are you doing here, Nico?” Nolan says in a much softer repetition of TK’s words.

He looks guarded as he stands there in nothing but joggers and a thin shirt, hands across his chest and a sceptical look in his eyes. But at least he doesn’t look mad.

“I wanted what Dylan have.” Nico blurts out when he can’t handle Nolan looking at him like that anymore, his attention on him for longer periods of time without the familiar smile on his lips. “I didn’t want you to think it was all because of the stupid string, I wanted the blue one first and then watch it turn red.”

“Nico that’s.” Nolan says with a frown, “I still don’t know what you’re talking about. Is it –“

“Back in November, when we met up after the game here, you asked me why I didn’t tell you and I didn’t really give you an answer.”

Nolan snorts, unkind and harsh. “Yeah, I think I remember that. But it doesn’t really answer my question though. What are you doing here?”

Nico takes a deep breath, trying to control the way he’s starting to shake.

“I might not have known a lot about the strings at that time, but I did know that I liked you.” Nico starts carefully, slow as he meets Nolan’s eyes to make sure he’s following him. “You always seemed so fascinated with the strings that telling you would’ve put pressure on a relationship that hadn’t even begun yet.”

Nolan looks like he wants to interrupt but Nico shakes his head pleadingly. He needs to get this out first.

“I didn’t know if you liked me back at the time, so telling you about the strings felt wrong to me – like I was trying to trick you into liking me back. And that’s not what I wanted, No. I didn’t want a relationship built on false pretences.

“I wanted to get to know you first, I wanted you to fall in love with me because that’s what you wanted, and not because some fucking string said you were supposed to.” Nico finishes softly.

“Neeks.”

Nico smiles and clears his throat, looking just the tiniest bit embarrassed as he says, “To be honest, I might never have told you about the string if you hadn’t noticed back in April. But it wouldn’t have changed how much I love you.”

“Aren’t you supposed to be playing Pittsburgh tonight?” Nolan finally says, his voice just above a whisper.

“Yeah but.” Nico lets go of the breath he’s been holding as he shrugs. “Jesper is covering for me, as long as I’m back before the game, everything will be okay.”

It’s not until now that he notices Nolan’s hands shaking, how tightly he’s gripping the door frame; his fingers almost white with the force of it.

Nico whines quietly, reaching out to cover one of Nolan’s hands with his. “Nols, you’re hurting yourself. I don’t, if you want me to leave –“

“That’s the thing, eh?” Nolan chuckles, but it sounds just on the brink of hollow, “I really, _really_ don’t want you to leave, but I should. Why don’t I want you to leave, Neeks?” He almost begs.

And maybe that’s the breaking point for Nico, the pleading tone, the fucking nickname he’s been fantasising about, Nolan swaying towards him instead of away from him. But Nolan still hasn’t said he wants to try again, that Nico is forgiven, that all isn’t lost to a shitty dry run when they were eighteen and stupid.

“Nolan, you need to. I can’t, _please_.” Nico echoes in the same pleading tone as he takes just a single step forward. He watches Nolan like a hawk, how he doesn’t move as Nico comes closer, but he’s still not saying anything. “I love you Nols. I know I hurt you, but I promise, I won’t ever do it again. Just, give me a chance, please.”

For a moment, time doesn’t pass.

It’s just him and Nolan in a hallway in a shitty Philadelphian apartment complex. Their eyes are locked, but other than their lungs filling up and then forcing out the air, neither of them moves; both of them stuck waiting from the other to take the next step.

But Nico can’t be the one to do so.

And then Nolan whines, miserable and almost silent, sounding so fucking sad that Nico is already turning around to leave. But then Nolan’s hands are gripping his shoulder and pulling him into the apartment, pushing him against the wall before, _finally_ , he kisses him for the first time in almost a year.

Nico is quick to respond. His own hands go to Nolan’s hips and pull him against him until they’re entirely flushed against each other. They kiss until both of their breaths are coming out short, ragged and loud as their chests press against each other, but at least this way Nico can feel him. He’s pretty sure he’s smiling as Nolan moves in again, insistent and confident as he kisses his open mouth. 

One of his hands slides along Nolan’s to where it’s resting against the wall beside his head boxing him in. He intertwines their hands, tangling their fingers together and squeezing when Nolan bites down on his lip, Nico letting out a soft yelp.

Nolan breaks the kiss and laughs making Nico pout.

“Why are you stopping?” He whines as he continues down Nolan’s neck, making sure to leave at least three bites behind. But Nolan just keeps laughing, shaking his head as he squeezes his hand back.

“It’s the wrong hand, babe.” He finally says when Nico tries to continue the kiss, his marks made on the pale skin of Nolan’s neck and collarbones.

Nico blinks, waiting for whatever revelation Nolan had that never seems to come, “What?”

“The _hand_ , Neeks.” Nolan smiles and nods to where Nico’s left hand is intertwined with his against the wall, “That’s not the one with the string on it, is it? Our string is on your right hand.”

“Oh,” Nico says, the pout turning into something soft that almost hurts with how wide his grin is, “You remember that?”

“Of course, I remember, Neeks.” He scoffs, but there’s no malice in his eyes now, nothing but pure adoration a he leans in to kiss him, just quick and easy before he’s pulling away again. “How could I ever forget?”

Nico flushes, his cheeks heating up as he hides his face in Nolan’s shoulder. “I love you,” he repeats.

“Yeah Neeks, I love you too.”

**Author's Note:**

> Raise your hand if you can't spell Tito's last name either! 
> 
> Untagged relationships/people: 
> 
> Mitch Marner/Auston Matthews, Taylor Hall/Ryan Nugent-hopkins/Jordan Eberle (and combinations of them), Taylor Hall/Adam Henrique, Mat Barzal/Anthony Beauvillier, Tyson Jost/JT Compher, Travis Konecny/Lawson Crouse, Dylan Strome/Alex Debrincat, Eddie Lack/Robert Luongo. 
> 
> Jesper Bratt, Sidney Crosby, Claude Giroux, Roman Josi, Pekka Rinne.


End file.
